Chasing the Wind

I am writing everything exactly as it is coming to my mind right now. It's amazing what comes out when you don't plan on what to say, because all the pretenses are removed from the message, and you end up with a direct link to your thoughts and mind.

I am thinking about sitting atop a snow covered mountain and what it would be like to shout from the top of my lungs to the world below. I am traveling back to the red road in Hawaii where I ran every day and would hear the thundering sounds of the ocean tides onto the volcanic beaches. I am back to the place where rainbows graced the horizon and moon bows haunted the evening sky. In the stillness my mind journeys to the places of clarity where no echo resonated louder than the very thoughts of my own mind. To search inside instead of seek outside the needs of my body was to discover the very essence of me.

Rays of sunlight were like knives penetrating the canope of trees creating a burst of life into the dull shadows. I was living on the tropical outskirts of a far off place, yet I have never felt so at home. Yet, in another realhm of geographic excess I felt the same serenity on a 14,000 mountain with the earth in all it's existence seemingly at my fingertips. It was a fading moment of reality, but a moment of clarity none the less. It's the kind of peace that the pure silence of freshly fallen snow can provide. Perhaps the further from the white noise of man made civilation the voice of God made creation speaks the loudest. Being of that very creation myself, I was at home.

Of Christmas Past

I was thinking about how Christmas has changed a lot for me over the years. Yes, I am one of those people who thinks it's ridiculous that Christmas decorations in department stores go up in October. Yes, I also think Christmas has gotten over marketed, and that society tries to sell the idea that a fat guy in a red and white suite is what Christmas is all about. I'm not cynical about Christmas...ok, well maybe I am a little, but it seems to me that all my fond memories of December 25th are like those Hallmark commercials from the 1980's.

If you're at least as old as me, then you'll remember those Hallmark classic movies, you know the ones that always made you wanna cry tears of joy at the end? You'll also remember those golden lit, airbrushed Hallmark Christmas commercials that seemed to depict on tv the exact way I depict my memories of my youth. I admit that I am sentmental, and I admit that I romanticize the past as something of a golden faded memory. Maybe that's the way I should always try to remember Christmas, and the reason I always do?

I remember my first Christmas like it was yesterday. I got up before the sun rose, it must have been around 5am, and I woke my parents with a zeal only a 3 year old could possess. My sister hadn't been born yet, and it was the first true Christmas that my parents had where we were a complete family. It was mom, dad, and myself. A perfectly complete little family at the beginning of all things. Obvisously it was even more amazing the following year where I celebrated my first Christmas as a big brother. Yet the surprise, wonderment, and joy that I felt on that morning may be a feeling that I never experience again from that point of view. I hope one day that I can relive bits and pieces of it through my children, but I know it will never be the same as feeling I had that could only be felt through the innocent mind of a child.

Christmas is about the ultimate gift of love, life, redemption, and humanity wrapped all into one. I think the basic elements of that are so simple that even I as a 3 year understood it. Did I know the true details of the Nativity story, of course not, yet the depth of emotion that Christmas embodies I did. But, not only did I understand it, but I felt it, and it was something incredibly real because it was my unihibited reality. The more we "grow up" and the more life clouds that view, the harder it is to see the true simplicity in things. For once I'd like to go back to a place of undestanding where I don't feel like I am required to overthink, or overanalyze because it is protecting me from reality. Life brings upon so many doubts, that we truly become incapable of seeing things without a lens.

I like to remind myself that life is only as complicated as you convince yourself that it is. It's that simple...and that complicated at the same time.

Dear Life,

Second post today, my mind must be hitting on all cylinders.

This was my facebook status this morning. Not sure what fueled the fire exactly, but life has been crazy recently.

"Dear life- don't you know I am a masochistic endurance athlete? If you think I can't take everything you throw at me...I dare you..give me your best shot. I can take it. I always have, and always will. I am so much stronger than you think I am. Bring it you sorry sack of crap, because I will ALWAYS get back up for more."

God made me many things. He made me an incredible, almost to a scary degree, judge of character. I can size up a liar in seconds, and I can read character faster that anyone I know. Why am I not working for the FBI? Anyway, God also made me stubborn, loyal, trustworthy, cautious, and protective. It's also clear that God did not bestow these qualities in little amounts, He put them in me at 100% capacity. This means that these personality traits never show up in moderation.

I do understand that although stubborn, I have the heart of a lion. I think the reason endurance running specifically hits a chord with me is because it parallels life on almost every level (spiritual, mental, and physical). I have found that I excel at taking a beating, dusting myself off, and waging war again and again. I can take punishment(not just running) on a level many humans would cower from. I've never taken pain killers, even when seriously hurt, because it was always important for me to be as connected as possible with it.

Almost as a side joke, God made me a hopeless romantic (I know that's hard to believe), AND He made me cynical. I also base the world on a systematic level of quanitiative measures. I am incredibly logical and calculating, and yet I also possess a high artistic sense and love of philosophy. An artistic, pragmatic, realist? Geez, no wonder I can never make up my mind. My left and right brains are constantly at war with eachother. I find beauty in everything, yet question the beauty in everything, only to remind myself things are simpler then they appear...and also more complicated. Thank you God for making me a truly unique and beautiful snow flake. Without a doubt there really is NO one like me :-)

Broken and Shattered

Palace of Broken Dreams

As of today there are 6.77 billion people on this earth. At the earliest of ages, perhaps the age of accountablitity where we can decipher right from wrong, we disconnect from innocence and into another realm of conscience. For many of us, perhaps by chance, life will choose to pull us in directions that will ultimately shape the mold of who we become and how we face a very real world. Reality does not wait for us to be ready, and no amount of schooling can prepare the soul for the often bitter sting of the world and its relative truths.

There will certainly be those of us that live a percievingly charmed existence, and those of us who will not. Either one, regardless of how blatently clear they are to us, leaves more to be desired. It's the reason the millionaire athlete and the prostitute can both find themselves shivering alone in a drug induced state in a hotel room. It is the perception that you have it all, but even having it all leaves you with nothing. The world will find a way of revealing what is most valued to us, and then strip it away.

Even by the time we are young adults, we are scarred. Sexual abuse, domestic violence, emotional and physical abuse, all lead us down the same dark path. Even worse the wounds bleed more when we are hurt by those we trust willingly and love unconditionally. We learn we will always be let down, and we can trust no one...not even ourselves. And again, ironically even the successful lawyer and his beautiful family may eventually meet the shattered at the same crossroads. It's funny how lives in the now and here find a way to converge at a point of soul aching chaos. We are all broken from the "nevers and maybes", the "I love you's",and "I'll never love you's". We've walked away, been walked away from, and abandoned.

Many people don't know this, but I suffered from bulimia for nearly two years, but I was normal. At least I convinced myself I was despite the worries of my family and friends. I weighed 40 lbs less than I did in college,and I was never heavier than 173lbs then. I called it being "healthy","watching my weight", and believed it was a result of my new passion for running. I believed my own lies. Was it a subconcious issue of control, body image, or perhaps merely an exaggerated method of molding myself into some idealized version of me? People spend so much time trying to numb pain, with even more pain. They literally cut themselves deeper and deeper in order to feel something (anything), and to punish themselves for the mistakes in their life,often reagrdless of fault. Maybe it's so they can feel on the outside what they already feel on the inside. I believe it's the reason we drink until we can't feel a thing, use drugs to destroy the little of us that remains human, and desire to lose all control because to be in control leaves us accountable for our own actions. The reason we take pain killers is so we can live through the pain, but in reality the core of the pain (the injury) is still there and living through it without a true solution only makes it worse.

The burden of life is a heavy weight. Many people choose to not acknowledge it, but for those(like myself) who have a heightened emotional connection to the world around me, it is hard to not absorb the external forces that keep us from moving. A friend of mine shared with me a story of how 5 ton elephants are trained. They are first tied to an immovable object with a very thick chain that even they cannot break. Slowly, the massive elephant realizes that with all it's brute strength it can't break the chain. After enough time, the thick chain is replaced by a smaller one, then another,until finally only a small rope is keeping the elephant tied down. The creature, assumes by the feel, that he can still no longer break free, although he could easily do it. Now the master, a human of insignificant size compared to the elephant, can manipulate its direction with merely the slightest tug of a tiny rope.

I wonder how much freedom we would rejoice in if we actually knew our chains were nothing more than little strings. Our past, our "failed" dreams,and our damaged nature eats at the core of our soul until the mighty creature that once stood has been relegated to a lowly beast of burden. Yet we continue to stumble blindly through the darkness chasing shadows into deeper depths of sorrow and solitude. The needle holes, cutting scars, and bruises have tattooed themselves over the facade of a fractured being. Our skin, our outside, whether visibly damaged, or that of a supermodel often belies what is truly at the root of our identity. Are we not more than what we allow to cover us and permiate the very threads of our being?

You can clothe your brokeness and nakedness with pearls and Armani, but it's like fixing a leaking dam with duct tape. You can drown out the suffering and serve your penance, but self destruction is a cruel ghost, and it'll haunt you until you are fixed on the inside. The heart is the source of life, pumping blood the body, and when the heart shatters, everything else comes crashing down. The heart is a palace of broken dreams, and often pride and guilt prevent us from coming to a place of restoration and redemption.

"Behold, I make all things new"

All That is Left Behind

In August of 2010, our church received the startling news that fellow member Brian Carderelli was murdered while serving on a medical missions trip in Afghanistan. He was a photographer documenting aid work and a recent college graduate from James Madison University. He was only 25 years old. Like a stone cast into still waters word of the tragedy spread from small country towns to the furthest cities of the world. At home, on the quiet front, the small city of Harrisonburg felt the brunt of the impact.

Two months ago, Mike Broderick, a prominent member of a Virginia based trail running club and community was diagnosed with lung cancer. He had dedicated the last 15 years of his life to coaching, mentoring, and helping others pursue a healthy and vibrant lifestyle. Yet, before anyone really had time to come to full grips with the weight of the situation he was gone. There was no epic battle, no months of chemo, just an abrupt end to a talented and rich life.

There's no doubt that in either case the internal reflection is weighted with a mighty burden. How could two men, both seeking the betterment of the world through their daily actions, come to such ends as if any means could justify? There is a universal truth that when we lose people in the fashion the world lost Brian and Mike, then the gut reaction is grief, sadness, and then the rejoicing of the life lived in their memory. But, as in all too many instances of life, that memory of life fades into the bleak abyss of the mundane trudge of life.

How then do we truly honor the memory of these people beyond the ritualistic motions of memorial and basic remembrance? Do these men truly live on inside of by bringing birth to new ideas and innovations distinctly inspired by the screen captures of their life? Life is but a motion picture, yet we are merely living within a single frame caught at a rare moment in this collective second of existence. I wonder how long inspiration can manifest itself, or to what degree life must make its appeals before the hybernation period yields to verdant bloom. Memories are merely the black and white replication of a two dimensional mode of thought. That what changes the inanimate and provides autonomous motion is truly the unique gift of the inspired. We can take and create, or we can choose to leave behind, but less us not leave behind all that is worth keeping.

The Master's Hand

The Master’s Hand

Reflections on mentor, and former teacher, Master Lorenzo Gibson

A reunion I won’t forget.

I stood in the do jang office and nervously waited for further instruction from the teacher. Korean martial arts is a very different skill set from other forms, and I was about to try and prove that my Korean heritage made me a natural. Just then Lorenzo Gibson, a highly decorated fourth degree Tae Kwon Do black belt, asked me to perform a side kick and front punch. I hesitated, since I didn’t really know what either one looked like, and eventually managed a literal kick to my right side and a punch in front of me. Lorenzo looked interested in my potential, but I didn’t think I was ready, and decided to hold off joining Mr. Gibson’s school for a few more months.

It was the summer of 1988, and I was only six years old when I first met Master Lorenzo Gibson. The man was lean and fast as lighting, yet could strike with accuracy of a sniper, and the force of a wrecking ball. Master Gibson ran a very successful South Richmond based Tae Kwon Do school in the peak of the karate craze. The movie, The Karate Kid had come out a few years earlier, and Jean Claude Van Dam was just hitting the big screen. Bruce Lee was already a legend, but others like Jackie Chan and Jet Li had yet to be introduced to the American mainstream. Whatever my intentions, I was hooked, and on my 7th birthday I began my first class at Lorenzo’s martial arts studio.

The years went by fast! I was a quick learner, and naturally athletic for my age. When I was learning martial arts there were really no such things as children’s classes, and I often competed against adults and bigger kids. I practiced several times a week for 90 minutes, worked on my forms, Korean language, sparring, and board breaking. My belt seemed like it went from white to yellow, and soon to red in a fairly short period of time. By the time I was nine years old I was an experienced fighter, and had learned some of the key principals that I would cling to for the remainder of my life. Have respect, integrity, honesty, dedication and humility. Master Gibson never failed to remind us that regardless of what color belt we have, and in all aspects of life, not just martial arts, these teachings can be applied.

On April 19, 1991, two months shy of my 10th birthday, I passed a rigorous examination to become the youngest black belt in the state of Virginia. Several months after that I left Master Gibson’s school forever in order to pursue my growing passion for another sport I was gifted in, baseball. That was the last time I saw Master Lorenzo Gibson. Aside from my parents, and a select few teachers, Lorenzo Gibson’s teachings were an integral part of my childhood and development. I have had many varsity coaches, and “scholarly” professors who lacked the pure passion for people and sharing his gift. Lorenzo wanted YOU to become a better person. In the decade that followed I would rebel against many of the values that I held so dear, as only a child would, and although those teachings were never forgotten, they were indeed dormant into my teen years.


I never did forget about Master Gibson, or the many other students I learned with under his guidance. Over the years I stopped by our old school location only to find that it was no longer there. I figured Lorenzo had gone his own way and probably started his own school, or maybe moved. In 2006, I re-attempted to locate my old teacher and found his new location, yet failed to actually see him when I stopped by.

Only July 16th, 2010 I sat as a spectator in one of Master Lorenzo’s classes. I was thrilled to see him doing what I have always known him to do, and honestly just happy to see my old friend. Watching him work with his new students brought back a rush of childhood memories, whether it was him showing me how to break a board, or shift my body to a correct stance. The students, like before, showed the utmost respect, saying “yes sir”, and bowing at the appropriate times. Then the class ended, Master Lorenzo saw me and walked over with a very puzzled look on his face. He asked “Do I Know you?. I replied “Indeed you do, it’s been 20 years!” Without a second thought he says “Mike!” Twenty years later I have long hair, am a foot taller, and not to mention Lorenzo has taught thousands of students…and yet, he remembered my name.

For the next 20 minutes he introduces to all his students, like I was some celebrity, and we try to catch up on 20 years of life. Master Lorenzo is 56 now, but time has been kind to him. He is still a physical specimen and just as fast as he was before, though he says he limits the really tough tricks. His daughter, who I met just after she was born, is a 20 year old VCU student, and his son who wasn’t born yet is now 18. Perhaps the greatest thing I wanted to tell Lorenzo was that I had never forgotten what he taught me as a seven year old child. I told him I run long distance ultra marathons now, but I still apply the things he taught me during, and outside of races. He said hearing that from me meant a great deal to him, and confirmed that all his work over the years did matter, and still matters today. Neither one of us could stop smiling, and we could have talked for hours, maybe days, but he had places to be and our time was up. Master Lorenzo was the last person in the do jang when I left that day. As any respectful student would do for their teacher, I turned back towards my mentor, put my feet together, and bowed.

We will be in touch soon.

20 Summers

Maybe it's because I am getting older, but I have spent a lot of time recently thinking about...well, time. I'm thinking about how time slows and speeds up at seemingly irrelevant paces, of which I control neither. I watch moveis about time travel and realize humanity is so very caught up in the concept of time conservation, alteration, and relativity. However, even Einstein himself declared that time is a mode of existence, not a condition of it. In other words time is a man made measurement of physical change, and the repetitive cycles of that change that by and large are quantifiable and predictable. Time is like weight, length, and volume. Measurable, yet consistent methods of elements we desire out of pure necessity to place an exact value.

20 summers ago I was nine years old. On my ninth birthday, my birthday always falling on the first day of summer, I attended a Richmond Braves baseball game with a dozen on my closest little buddies. A severe thunderstorm rolled in, and we opted to head back to my parents to watch the widely coveted motion picture Rocky 5.

The summer of 1990 was all about ring pops, skip it, sharks and minnows, and sleepovers. This was years before bills required long work weeks, health required dental and vision plans, cancer had yet to ravage my family, and all my grandparents were still alive for me to hug and listen to their heartbeat. I hadn’t a care in the world, aside from how to tell Rainey Lacey, my 4th grade crush, how pretty I thought she was. There was no Eminem, but there was Vanilla Ice. There was “Pants on the ground”, but there were Hammer pants. There was no AIM, iPhones, Facebook, MySpace, Wii, or generally even an interactive “web” of computerized networks. We did, however, indulge in Nintendo, Sega Genesis, Oregon Trail, and Where in the World is Carmen San Diego?

The summer of 1990 saw a change in the world, and a change in the way I viewed the world. From age 8 to 9 the Berlin wall fell, Russia held its first free election since 1917, and George Bush took over as president. The same year Saddam Hussein’s Iraqi armies invaded Kuwait, and America officially took part in the Gulf War, also known as Operation Desert Storm.

The summer of 1990 would undoubtedly usher in a decade of generation x, the children of the baby boomers rise to prominence, and change in the nature of social revelations. One could say the world was on the cusp of a great technological era, and the good old days of your grandparent’s WWII world of black and white gone for good. But, I have many fond memories of my summer in 1990, perhaps more memories than someone my age should have of that year. A guy named Michael Jordan, especially his shoes, were making all of us kids want to be like Mike. Unfortunately for Mr. Jordan, I had already fallen in love with my red and white size 7 Reebok Pumps.

Many of you weren’t even born yet, just as I was not alive to witness the triumph and tragedy of my parent’s generation. To my friends reading this who are under the age of 20: In the summer of 1990 Mike Bailey conquered his fear of the high dive, started his second season of Little League baseball, hadn’t hit puberty, earned his black belt, and grew two inches to a towering height of 4 foot 7. Who knew that 20 summers later I would be typing this to friends who won’t be born for another 3-4 years? Who knew that 20 summers later I would “tag” friends in this note who I won’t meet until ten years later in college, in Denver 13 year later, or on some tropical island 17 years after.

In the summer of 1990 I hadn’t even lived one third of the life I have lived up until now. 20 summers ago the twin towers still graced the New York skyline and September 11th was simply the second week of classes, 64 count crayon boxes, and number 2 pencils. My grandparents would stay up late and talk with me on the porch, and if I was lucky I watch Johnny Carson with them.

If I step outside on a warm evening like tonight and take a deep breath, 20 summers ago might as well be this very moment of collective thought. What is 20 years really? What is it to age, and grow up? 20 summers ago where were you?

-Mike Bailey

Tempus Aeternum Est (Time is eternal)

Did I dream, or did I remember? The faded pictures echo a voice from another distant time and place, a remembrance of another person. It's the beginning of light when the lungs capture their first drawn breath of air, an age of being brought forth unto the present. Interpretation to understanding, the reconciliation of thought and imagination provoke the curiosity of wit and wisdom. Everything is new in the beginning.

Like flashes of brilliance through the verdant abundance there is rationaliazation abound giving birth to the concept of existential being. Questions of the infinite, and the finite overwhelm the sanctity of the soul. The world of wonder and exploration give way to the frantic pace of time and motion. When a child, the necessity for absolute truth is dulled in the fanciful, yet mercifully naive mind of pure innocence. Therein begins the everlasting, almost obligatory search for the dichotomy of man and eternity. In objective wisdom and subjective parables, books being the tool, yet yielding to the deus ex machina. Before we sought only to see the mountain, yet when the time comes, we arrive at the summit only to desire beyond the destinations of our youth. The safety net has been carried away and we are left to walk the line, or fall into uncertain waters where the current is strong.

We interpolate the life song, strumming note after note, until the chord is hit with a resounding melody. It is the zeal of the first quartile of the journey, scores beyond the meek and frightened boy, the intrepid has gone fully solo. Into the great wide expanse of the creation I am compelled, propelled, drawn into, cast out, where will I find my landing place? Yearning to be here, desire to be there, to whom do I have and how do I become completely redefined beyond the selfish realm of me? Found, or so hoped, the forward motion comes to a halt. The quest and the path of longsuffering, perserverence, and doubt take their toll on the weary mind of the wounded traveler. The wanderlust and restlessness has settled and into the domesticated void of certain uncertainty. It's been figured out, balanced, and you are now answering the questions you once asked in non hesitant fashion to those you envisioned complete wisdom. The taxing cynicism and stress of the grind is lifted and quenched by knowing the job is done. But, the question remains. I searched to find it, believed it to be found, and now the last remaining traces of a life before the age of accountability are all but rendered motionless.

The weight beared by it all wilts the knees to place of stillness. Life is moving forward, your legacy enshrined in the marriage of trust,loyalty, and provisions of your kin. But, there in lies the providential loss for explantion and rational. Why like the myriad now and before does must cyclical chorus be repeated and echoed. The energy is ceasing, the body tired. All that you have cultivated has moved on, there is nothing that yet remains but the loud thoughts in a captive mind. The world has collapsed to the palm of your hand in which all your hopes and unfufilled dreams reside. The crowded corridors have locked you into a passive lull,thirsting for the days of forgotten vigor and reckless abandon. Open the door,the dusty age of loneliness and silence shaken off for the a second breath of air. Into the light, the sun is uncloaked in as she pierces the mist of the ocean tide. All that remains and all you have is in your mind, no hand may grasp, no ear may hear the utterance of the voices you once cherished. White surrounds, flashback to flash forward, in eternity reconciled. Did I dream? The hour glass has emptied.